


Picking Up A Stray

by sunspot (unavoidedcrisis)



Category: Leverage
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Offscreen Violence, Pre-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Sort of Damsel in Distress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 02:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17695742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidedcrisis/pseuds/sunspot
Summary: Kidnapping cases aren't Eliot's wheelhouse, but cleaning up after other people screw up a job is. He's not expecting this screw up to follow him home though.





	Picking Up A Stray

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arithanas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/gifts).



There's no central database for people in his line of work, obviously, but if there were, it wouldn't contain a fee guide.

Eliot knows every job he takes is a series of complex, individual steps (even if sometimes step six is 'punch someone' and steps seven through forty-nine are 'repeat step six') and there can't be a set price for these things. He's got a base rate, different prices for different aspects of what's needed for each job, plus all expenses paid, of course.

He imagines most people doing jobs like his have similar considerations. He also imagines he's one of the more highly paid people doing his kind of freelancing in this day and age.

He imagines all of this in the split second that a bullet grazes his arm and sends him diving behind an over-full dumpster, cursing a blue streak.

Eliot needs to up his rates. Dramatically.

Now, he knew he'd be up against goons with guns, he just didn't think they'd be so trigger-happy. It's not a particularly difficult thing, per se, to disarm them and leave them in an unconscious heap, but it's annoying, and an extra step he hadn't planned on. Now he's six minutes behind schedule and bleeding.

Kidnapping cases were never his speciality, but apparently the last guy they'd hired to retrieve the kidnap-ee (a spoiled twenty-something manchild in Eliot's opinion, but beloved heir to a mafia family) never reported back. Eliot's speciality these days is cleaning up after other people.

He uses a strip of his undershirt to bind his arm (crude, but serviceable) until he can find a chance for some more effective first aid. A quick tour of the kidnapper's headquarters thankfully reveals that this the location he's been looking for, plus a few stacks of neatly bundled bills he helps himself to. It'll go a bit of the way to soothing his wounds at least.

Once he's in the basement and not worried about anyone else jumping him, he begins clearing the maze of room. First two rooms are empty of any signs of recent people, just boxes and dust. The third is lit with a bare bulb and decorated with a man sagging forward, tied to a chair.

"Michael?" Eliot asks, though he's ninety-eight percent sure this isn't him.

"End of the hall, turn left," the guy says, sounding dry and exhausted. "Hey, untie me maybe?" he adds, when Eliot turns to leave.

When Eliot obliges, the man follows him through the rest of the job, and despite being beaten to hell to and back, he doesn't slow them down at all.

* * *

It's the other retrieval guy sent ahead of Eliot, and apparently he's had a rough go in the last few days. Eliot lets him tag along and even pays for a room once they're out of the city.

The guy, Quinn, takes a ninety minute shower. Eliot doesn't mind. He's been there. You need time under the hot water to get your life back in order, to ease the tension and bruises, wash the blood out of your skin, and try to piece together where exactly you went wrong. On the job and in life.

Eliot orders take out from the first menu he finds in the beat-up motel desk. The room is as dismal as the town, but it's cheap, accessible, and they took cash. He's not happy about the single double bed, but the sheets seem clean.

The bathroom door opens, and Quinn steps out in a billow of steam. His deep v-neck is too deep, and Eliot can see the dark shadow of bruises creeping up his chest and collarbones.

Quinn sees the Chinese containers and plops on the bed next to Eliot. He reaches for a plastic fork, and water drips from his hair into the fried rice. "Thanks."

"I already ate most of the noodles," Eliot says, brushing the thanks aside with a frown.

"I didn't mean thanks for the sichuan noodles."

"You would have gotten out of there fine. Obviously none of them were Boy Scouts."

"No?"

"Those knots were shit."

" _Anyways_." Eliot could hear the eye roll in Quinn's voice. "Thank you. I owe you one. Or two. Maybe I can start by looking at your arm?"

Eliot hadn't forgotten it. At no point did he think he'd invite gangrene into his life and he tells Quinn as much. Doesn't help, because this guy seems stubborn as hell. His hands are surprisingly gentle for someone in their line of work as he prods the edges of Eliot's wound. He binds it with clean bandages before he sits and picks up his food again.

"You're lucky," he tells Eliot.

"Lucky to be lightly shot, yeah, of course."

"Luckier than a guy who gets entirely shot."

Eliot decides, somewhat puzzlingly, that he enjoys Quinn's company. Not in the field, obviously, because Eliot works alone and even if he didn't, he wouldn't work with a guy who couldn't sort out the most basic of kidnapping cases without getting a fat lip and a blooming array of bruises across his torso.

"I guess," Eliot says, and he realizes late that he took a beat too long to answer.

Quinn looks at him sidelong, also for a beat too many. "You okay?"

Eliot grunts something non-committal and focuses on the bean sprouts that are evading his fork. When Quinn brushes his hand up Eliot's back, Eliot follows the theme of the afternoon and takes a moment too long to stiffen his spine and pretend he's uncomfortable with the too-familiar touch.

Eliot's earlier assessment that he needs to raise his fees is entirely accurate. But it's too late for this most recent job, which he pulled off successfully and with minimal stress, and maybe he should take advantage of whatever extra, non-monetary perks this job has presented him with.

It doesn't take long from him to rationalize, and in the end it doesn't really matter anyway because Quinn's already moved the rest of the take out off the bed and is crouched between Eliot's knees on the stained carpet, leaning into his personal bubble, and kissing him sweetly.

'Sweetly' isn't what Eliot expects nor is used to. He's again puzzled to find he doesn't hate the way Quinn's hand is resting on the hem of his shirt, or the way he angles his mouth gingerly to fit against Eliot's without jarring his own injuries.

Eliot leans into it, careful not to crowd Quinn or knock him to the carpet, and it's nice for a few moments to just explore each other's mouths. Quinn's shoulders are strong, well-muscled under Eliot's palms. Quinn shivers, either because of the kiss or because his shirt's still damp from his hair and the air conditioning is still blowing in the corner. Eliot doesn't care which, he just enjoys the sensation of another person shivering while he touches them.

Quinn pulls back first and they look at each other. Eliot keeps his expression neutral, not wanting to push this in either direction.

"That wasn't because you untied me. This isn't your obligatory reward," Quinn says. He frowns a little, probably not even realizing he's doing it.

"Sure," Eliot agrees. He'd thought that, yes, but if Quinn thinks it's important enough to stop and frown at him about, he was obviously wrong.

"I'd have kissed you anyways."

"That definitely works for me," Eliot assures him.

And when Quinn straightens up and puts his knee between Eliot's to lever him backwards on the bed, it's obvious it's going to work for both them.

* * *

Eliot wakes long before dawn and only takes a second to process that he's not alone in the bed. The air conditioning is still running, with a hum and distinct chill in the air that's starkly different than the hot points of contact where Quinn's shoulder, knee, and foot are touching his. Quinn's breathing has the even,slow rhythm of sleep, so Eliot slides carefully away to get up.

He stretches, chasing away a bit of stiffness from yesterday's brawling and the later evening activities, before starting the shower.

Quinn's awake, dressed, and has his hand on the doorknob when Eliot emerges again. Quinn smiles, easy and open. Again and again, he's not what Eliot's come to expect in this world they share. "See you around?"

"You bet." Eliot wonders for a second if he should say more, if there's something he should offer, advice, a contact number, or his real name, but he doesn't. Quinn leaves and Eliot's alone, where he works best, where he worries least, and he can think about finding coffee and a flight instead of a curling smile and bruised collarbones.

If jobs keep leading to… complications like this, he's going to need to double his rates.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Chocolate Box! <3 I just kind of ran with a thought, so I hope it scratches an itch for you :D


End file.
